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TO MY DEAR SISTER 

Jennie Watson Healy 


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Copyrighted 
By Cora Mickle Hoffer 
1910 


©CI.A2595--3 




PREFACE 


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In presenting this work for your approval I have faithfully 
recorded the thoughts which the great warm Heart of the 
South presented to me. 

The call of the South is strong upon me, it is like a beauti¬ 
ful woman, whose fascinating glance at first meeting holds 
you with an irresistible charm. You bask in the glory of this 
intangible sweetness, you do not inquire the whys and the 
wherefores; you simply remain placidly content, realizing 
you are especially favored. Perhaps inexorable fate transfers 
you for a time, from the presence of her scintillating radiance ; 
then is when the indefinable spell begins its work. The 
Music of her voice, the glorious light in her luminous eyes, 
the incomparable delight of her wonderful personality, all 
combine to call you back to her charming presence. 

Should you respond and find yourself once more within the 
Aura of her graciousness your serfdom becomes a voluntary 
and everlasting joy. 

This is the Sunny Southland as it appeals to me and as we 
are all made in the “One Likeness,” it cannot appear vastly 
different to you, therefore no greater pleasure could I desire 
bestowed upon you, than that you should augment the num¬ 
bers of those who are now in delicious bondage to The Heart 
of the South. 

CORA MICKLE HOFFER. 








Heart of the South 


Five 


The People of the South 

Happy in your Southern clime 
Laughing, singing most the time; 
Drawling sweet your accents fall 
When you’re asking “How you all”? 

Southern langour in your eyes 
Borrowed from your sunny skies; 

Life’s a pleasing thing to you 
Hence you do not hurry through. 

And beneath your pine and palm 
You’re so restful in your calm; 

Just a-dreaming through the days 
Sweet repose in Southern ways. 

And you’re living right and true 
Doing as God meant you to; 

Stopping long enough to see 
Beauty in the flower and tree. 

Time to listen to the words 
Nature speaks in song of birds; 

Life was meant for such as you. 

Not for madly rushing through. 

And your easy Southern grace 
Puts to shame the Northern pace; 

Where they hurry out of breath 
To the end, and that is death. 

So I say, that you are wise 
With the dream look in your eyes; 

For you know the living joy, 

Love of life, without alloy. 

So find time for friendships dear 
Time to dry the falling tear; 

Time to love your Sunny land, 

Time to give a helping hand. 

I could listen all day long 
While you croon some Southern song; 
And I love to hear you call, 

In your welcome, “how you all”? 

Women fair and gallant men 
Language seems to fail me when; 

I depict by pen or mouth, 

Splendid people of the South. 


Heart of the South 


The Origin of Florida 

There once dwelt a Queen 
In a sphere in the skies, 

Her beauty was wondrous ’tis told, 

Her face held the tints of the pearl and the shell, 

Her hair was fine threads of gold. 

But just one flaw, 

Had this peerless Queen; 

She was vain of her many charms; 

And she gazed in a mirror day after day, 

Which she held in her soft white arms. 

Her subjects for council 
Would kneel at her feet; 

And patiently wait her commands, 

And she only smiled back at the face in the glass 
Which she held in her beautiful hands. 

But the gods who had 
Fashioned this being so fair; 

Grew tired when she ceased to reign; 

So they sent her commands to return to her trust, 

But they only commanded in vain. 

She lifted and toyed with 
Each stran of gold; 

That reflected its sheen in the glass, 

While affairs of dominion and cares of the throne, 
She serenely let them all pass. 

Now the gods in their wrath 
Looked down from on high; 

And for punishment they did mean, 

To snatch from her throne and straightway transform 
This vain disobedient Queen. 

So the gods in council 
Decided to change; 

And this was their dread decree, 

The beautiful Queen to a barren land 
That should reach out into the sea. 

Now when Gods speak 
The planets all rock ; 

So the poor Queen came to be, 

Just a barren land of soft white sand 
Like an arm reaching out in the sea. 

But her subjects were loyal, 

They loved their Queen ; 

And they moaned o’er her terrible plight, 

So they gathered her jewels and raiment fine 
And prepared themselves for flight. 

The grave cloth they brought 
Was of fine green silk ; 

Then they laid on her golden hair, 

And they fastened it over the bare white breast 
With many a diamond rare. 

They brought the red 
Of her ravishing lips; 

And for color laid here and there, 

Then sprinkled the perfumes she had loved the best 
And the scented spices rare. 

Though the Queen had been changed 
She was not dead; 

And her heart beat sweet and true, 

So she gave of her life to her winding sheet 
Until living green it grew. 


Heart of the South 


Seven 


Ye’ traveler who roams 
In these later days ; 

Perhaps you did not know, 

That the wonderful green was the robe of a Queen, 
Just ages and ages ago. 

And you eat of the fruit 
Of some of the trees; 

With never a thought or a care, 

Yet it found its life in the heart of a Queen 
And its tone was her golden hair. 

You build your homes 
By the beautiful lakes ; 

On their sparkling surface you ride, 

Yet you do not know in the long ago 

That they were the sweet Queens pride. 

For these were the diamonds 
That studded her gown; 

That gown with the silken sheen, 

Which was wove in the city beyond the sun 
For the winding sheet of a Queen. 

To the rich Poinsetta 
And Hibiscus too; 

Pay homage and bear in mind, 

They come from the lips of her whom the gods 
Made fairest of her kind. 

Come with love in your heart 
To this mother Queen; 

Know you not what she can do, 

She who gave life to inanimate things 
What life she can give to you. 

As you drink in the breath 
Of her rich perfumes; 

In her warm embrace find rest, 

Remember you’re folded in Royal Arms 
On Florida’s Queenly Breast. 


The Magnolia 

Clad in her Virgin purity, 

White in her sinless soul; 

From the Garden of Eden unspotted she came 
In search of her ultimate goal. 

The breeze must be soft and tender 
That fans her delicate cheek; 

And each Zephyr attuned to the sweetest lyre, 

If with her they fain would speak. 

Many lovers hath she this soft white thing, 

And she loves them every one; 

She reposes each night in summers arms, 

Each morning she kisses the Sun. 

She listens with joy to the Zephyrs song, 

She abandons herself to the breeze; 

And just as gayly engages herself 
For a dance with the leaves on the trees. 

The Moon at night shows her flirting with stars, 
She responds to each wink with nods; 

And yet she’s so pure in her sweet white soul 
She is also loved by the Gods. 

She has made her home in a Southern clime, 
Where never has fallen the snow; 

She has chosen a land that seems to her 
Like her Eden of long ago. 



Eight 


Heart of the South 


Southern Skies 

One of the Mythical Gods of old 
Dipped his brush in a pot of gold, 

Dipped again in a pot of red 
A thin grey color between he spread. 

Then he worked with an artist’s vim 
Modeling and blending the colors in; 

Then far up into the azure blue 
He worked a tone of a roseate hue. 

Still higher up he flecked in white 
And edged them round with amber light; 

For greater contrast then he made 
The grey near the white a darker shade. 

This wonderful painting then he took 
And used a star here and there for a hook; 

Hard he worked with this God-made whim 
Till he joined it on to the oceans rim. 

And so it hangs in this later day, B 

When the mist’s and fog has cleared away 
You can see it each morn and at set of sun 
The work this wonderful artist done. 

And they who travel on this earth 1 

Are’nt able to fathom the painting’s worth, i 

But the work was named by this Artist wise 
He called his painting, “Southern Skies.” 

The Grey Moss 

Grey Moss clinging, 

Grey Moss swinging, 

from the trees: 

Never ending 
Swaying bending 

with the breeze. 

O’er you hover 
While you cover 

Oak and Pine; 

Interlacing, 

Close embracing, 

Hanging vine. 

Softly swaying, 

Just betraying, 

like a sheath; 

Glimpse of leaves, 

Glimpse of trees, 

underneath. 

Moonbeams straying. 

Softly playing, 

brings me dreams; 

Of women wailing, 

Long hair trailing, 

so it seems. 

Ever charming, < 

Never harming, 

there you swing; 

Always shielding, 

Gently yielding, 

beauteous thing. 


Heart of the South 


Nine 


FORT MARION 

AT ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA 

Grey walls of Marion fast crumbling with age— 

In the history of nations you've written your page; 

I gaze at your lone sentry boxes so high, 

Forming brave silhouettes ’gainst the blue of the sky. 

Stripped are your ramparts unarmoured and bare— 

Though proud was the nation that once placed them there; 

You were built so impregnable it seems to me 
With your great deep moats and your face to the sea, 

How could foes approach you and whose was the blame— 

Where were your guardians when your enemies came, 

Did they grow lax because you were so strong 
And forget about guns in the laughter and song. 

Or were they out-numbered, yet fought the good Fight— 

Where the cause was not righteous just the victory might? 

I ask you to tell me sad grey walls of stone, 

But the wind through your empty cells responds with a moan. 

What grim looking chambers, were you more cheerful when— 
Your arched ceilings echoed the shouts of brave men? 

Of bugle and drum and when each day was done, 

The roar of the cannon at set of the sun. 

But the echo was saddest and softest perhaps 
When o’er your brave dead the drum sounded the taps; 

And again sweetest peace breathed itself in the air 
As your echoes recorded the evening prayer 

I peer into your dungeon and remember then 
Your prisoners of war, poor unfortunate men; 

Where the stillness was broken by the chains and balls 
That held them close to the dark damp walls. 

From your grewsome blackness I quick turn my eyes 
And haste to the inner court to breathe neath the skies; 

As I climb the broad stair I am thinking today 
Of the soldiers feet that have passed this way. 

Bright uniformed soldiers—I see them again 

And the flag that floats o’er them has the color of Spain, 

Your parapets are worn by the sentry’s firm tread 
Just worn and dis-armored, and your sentry’s dead. 

Ah’ grey Old Fort Marion—tis sad to relate— 

Though strong you fell from your high estate; 

Your poor battered walls must have rocked in their pain, 
When England’s flag floated o’er the torn shreds of Spain. 

Your pride laid it’s heart in your soldiers’ graves 
And high o’er your ramparts another flag waves; 

A flag that protects you but does not restore 
The loss of past glory you so deeply deplore. 

The life’s most gone out of you—still guarding you’ll be 
With your lone sentry boxes ever scanning the sea; 

Too sorrowful for smiling but with never a frown 
You are going like all the brave ones go, down. 


Heart of the South 


The Slave Market of St. Augustine 

Tall cement columns supporting the roof 
With sides opened well to the breeze; 

The music that comes from the fountain inside 
Is enhanced by the wind through the trees. 

So big and so spacious with steps leading up 
Like the old Grecian temple it stands; 

But far from religious were the rites practiced there 
Where they bought and sold men and not lands. 

And Maidens and Children, God pity them most 
For man’s laws, God’s laws must mock; 

When they drag tender creatures made in His like 
And auction them off at the block. 

From near and far came these traders in men 
With never a thought or a qualm; 

O’er the severed ties and heartbroken sighs 
That mixed with the swish of the Palm. 

All men were not wicked in those slavery days 
In the Mission across the way; 

Many repaired when the auction was o’er 
And knelt at the altar to pray. 

How could they do it with God in their hearts 
My wits are all at a loss; 

They built a Slave Market right beneath 
The Shadow of the Cross. 

The City Gate of Old St. Augustine 

Brave through the centuries—nobly you stand 
Though wars of the elements and wars of the land 
Have sadly defaced you and salt sea’s tears 
Have bathed you each morning for three hundred years. 

The walls are demolished close to your sides, 

No longer the world from the City divides, 

Your sentry boxes deserted and bare 
No longer resounds “Halt who goes there?” 

But long long ago the City rejoiced 

In the sense of safety the strong walls voiced; 

And at set of the Sun the Barrier Gate 
Shut fast for the night so the records relate. 

And guards were stationed in each sentry box, 

And the bridge was drawn up into it’s locks, 

And the troops inside did defense maintain 
O’er the garrison town of the King of Spain. 

*Tis More Blessed to Give than Receive 

Give freely, thou hast abundance 
Of whatever may be thy store, 

And if of love, thou givest thine all 
Thou shalt always be given more. 

For the hand of the miser will shrivel 
As he greedily hoards his gold, 

And a face will seam, as if with age, 

That has let it’s heart grow cold. 

Give words of comfort and courage 
Of hope to a stranger or friend, 

So thou too, may not be left alone, 

But be comforted on to the end. 


Heart of the South 


Eleven 


The Spanish Bayonet 

Long years ago when the South was new 
Before it’s knowledge of strife and pain, 

When most of it’s dark-eyed children bent, 

The knee of Allegiance to the King of Spain. 

There were many soldiers guarding her rights 
All of them picked and powerful men; 

And their uniforms flashed with red, green and gold; 

In their guns they carried the Bayonet then. 

And at such times when the shot and shell 
Gave out ere the battle was on the wane, 

They pressed in close and at shorter range, 

Ran through and through the foes of Spain. 

But that was long, long years ago, 

And now on many a battlefield 

One finds the “Spanish Bayonet,” 

With it’s long spear points that only yield. 

Protection to it’s sweet white flowers 
The emblem in itself of peace; 

What nobler form could a Bayonet take, 

Whenever the wage of war did cease. 

So may some fairy touch our swords, 

And for fighting purpose their use forget; 

And may they into fair flowers bloom, 

Like the sweet scented “Spanish Bayonet” 

The Sea-Gull and The Wave 

A Sea-Gull swooped down from etherial blue 
And settled itself on the crest of a Wave; 

The Wave flurried up in a foam of joy, 

And little soft kisses of love he gave. 

For he loved the Gull with the soft white breast 
And the luminous glint in her clear dark eyes; 

And he begged her to stay with him alway, 

For he could not reach her path in the skies. 

So she bent her head with modest mein 

As she sweetly reposed in her lovers arms; 

He patted and kissed, and petted and pleased, 

And gallantly sang of her ravishing charms. 

But this sweet white Gull was a gay coquette 

Though you’d never believe "it, to look in her eye; 

She tired of the love of the dark blue Wave, 

So she spread her wings and soared back to the sky. 

Now the dark blue Ware in his maddened grief 
Lashed himself into seething foam; 

And he parted himself from his parent breast, 

And started the wild high seas to roam. 

So for days and days, and miles and miles 
With never a stop in his frenzied pace; 

Until at length he was nearing the land, 

Though t’was a barren, rocky, desolate place. 

He cast one look at the dazzling Sun 

As a soft white Gull in the sky gave call; 

Then he dashed himself with relentless force, 

Over the top of the great rock wall. 

The white Gull wavered one moment, and then 
Her sweet head turned toward other lands; 

She gave no thought to the dark blue Wave, 

That had found his grave in the Sun-baked sands. 


Twelve 


Heart of the South 


The Ships That Lay in Tampa Bay 

What place do you hail from 
What port did you clear, 

And was the winds tempered 
That helped to sail you here? 

And you big four-master 
With your great sails furled; 

You have had a long voyage 
From the tropical world. 

Your cargo betrays you, 

For up from your hold 
Comes sacks upon sacks 
Quite a sight to behold. 

A rich cargo too, 

When one stops to think 
Of the liquid amber; 

You’ll make for our drink. 

And you proud steamer 
What a beautiful sight— 

With you row of staterooms 
So fresh and white. 

So exclusive you look 
With Metropolitan pride, 

Quite easily one knows 
From what City you ride. 

And you big black thing, 

With trimmings of yellow, 

Aloof from the white ship 
You dirt begrimmed fellow. 

Coal-dust from your cargo 
Is mixed with the damp, 

And makes you unsightly 
You poor old tramp. 

But Lo’ here’s a beauty, 

And some friends I see 
Are going on board of her 
And beckon to me. 

They beg me to join them 
It is not too late; 

There is naught to deter me 
So why hesitate? 

But I answer, e’en Italy’s 
Blue Dome never vies, 

With the soft dreamy radiance 
Of Tampa’s blue skies. 

They may sing of the charms 
Of a foreign shore; 

Leave me with my ships, 

In this land I adore. 

Where like homing doves 
Safe returning they lay, 

With tired wings at rest; 

In Tampa’s blue bay. 


Heart of the South 


Thirteen 


“Gentlemen I Saw Your Smokes” 

Neath a sort of latticed roof, 

Where the Sunlight filtered through, 

Cords supported giant plants— 

With velvet leaves of soft green hue. 

Where the darkies laughed and tended, 

Where the green and sunlight blended. 

Where they sang and told their jokes, 
“Gentlemen, I saw your smokes.” 

How the darkies scanned each leaf, 

On each plant bestowed such care; 

For it was the finest kind— 

Of tobacco growing there. 

Where the darkies laughed and tended, 

Where the green and sunlight blended, 

Where they sang and told their jokes, 
“Gentlemen, I saw your smokes.” 

Then within a spacious building 
Tables up and tables down, 

Holds the same great velvet leaves, 

But they’re now a golden brown. 

Where the slender Cuban fingers, 

Smoothes and rolls, and softly lingers; 

Where the fragrance sweetly coax, 

“Gentlemen, I saw your smokes.” 

And the stillness in the rooms 
Broken only by the voice, 

Of the Reader, from whose book— 

Comes love stories—Cuban’s choice; 

So the romance that is told, 

Into dark brown leaves are rolled; 

Where the charm these tales invokes 
“Gentlemen, I saw your smokes.” 

Some days after when I stood 
Near an open Banquet door— 

Though I know t’was passing bold, 

I took one peep, if nothing more. 

Festive board and feasting men, 

Glasses tinkling gayly when— 

Through blue vapor came their jokes, 
“Gentlemen, I saw your smokes.” 

The Mother Oak 

MAMMOTH OAK IN THE GROUNDS OF THE TAMPA BAY HOTEL 

Oh’, “Mother Oak” I have christened you, 

For your long and tender arms 
Are lovingly nursing the queerest babes 
As you proudly display their charms. 

On some of your arms grow tiny palms, 

And a vine grows out of your breast, 

And a cactus darts from about your knee 
And close to your body is pressed. 

A diminutive pineapple here and there, 

A banana tree springs from your feet, 

And every babe that’s been given to you 
You rear with your Mother-love sweet. 

You cover your head with a soft grey moss, 

To better protect your young, 

Oh’, “Mother Oak”, with your generous heart 
It is time your praises were sung. 


Fourteen 


Heart of the South 


Afternoon Tea 

IN THE GROUNDS OF THE ROYAL POINCIANA HOTEL, PALM BEACH 

The music made its subtle way 

Through the drowsy husli of the afternoon; 

While the rythmic measure of his heart 
Kept time to the musics luring tune ; 

For she was seated a few feet away 
At a tiny tea-table sipping tea, 

And from under the droop of a ravishing hat 
She lifted eyes of the deep, deep sea. 

He knew they were green by the spell they wore; 

And then as she smiled he knew they were blue, 

As she turned her eyes to the setting sun 

He saw golden specks had shot them through. 

O’er her lips there fluttered a quivering sigh 

That was borne on the musics note to the man. 

Like the musics note it was round and full 

Of the love she knew he would understand. 

The palm leaves waved above her head 
As if to cool the blush of her cheek 
That came and glowed with that rosy hue 

When his heart to her dear heart did speak. 

A bird who was looking began to sing, 

The music swelled to a wild sweet air, 

The bird and the band seemed both to proclaim 
That love was tangible everywhere. 

But still he did not come to her side, 

He sat at his table and looked it all, 

And she knew at last love had come to her 
But was sadly late in making his call. 

Just then a harsh voice broke the spell 
And spoiled all the drowsy afternoon, 

“Yer ’usband Miss is in a towerin’ rage 

With ’is gout, will I say you’ll be coming soon ?” 

One cup was crushed in a strong man’s hand 
Another dropped on the green of the lawn, 

The band crashed forth a story of war, 

The sun had dipped in the ocean and gone. 

Like one stricken ill she rose to comply; 

The man turns white, while the music dies; 

He touches her hand as she passes by, 

She looks at him with her deep sea eyes. 

THE WINTER SEA 

WRITTEN ON DAYTONA-ORMOND BEACH 

How can I write of prosey things 

When my thoughts and fancies nave taken wings? 

And they carry my soul from this mundane sphere 
And only the wash of the sea I hear; 

A winter sea in a Summer clime 

Where one counts not the hours and heeds not the time. 

Where the waves roll in gently with a soothing refrain 
Yet one knows the strength of the mighty main, 

How can this power be so mild and sweet 
That embraces and kisses the sands at our feet? 

How wonderful this lesson in God’s great plan 
Where simplicity in greatness is taught to man. 

I listen intently as I watch the sea 
It tells such beautiful tales to me; 

It speaks to my soul in a language I love 
Not so much of the earth as the Heavens above; 

Still it tells how beautiful the earth can be 
When one sits on the sands by a Winter Sea. 


Heart of the South 


Fifteen 


Poinciana Midst the Palms 

POINCIANA HOTEL AT PALM BEACH, FLA. 

Mid-Winter did you say? 

Seems impossible today; 

Sitting in my gown of white 
Sheltered from the dazzling light, 

By the cool verandas shade; 

Scenes of winter, how they fade. 

Just across the walk I see 
Cocoanuts upon the tree; 

Yellow flowers, and flowers of red 
Flowers on vine and flowers in bed, 

Gardens stretching all about 

Filled with trees and flowers throughout. 

Looking lazily I see 

On the lawn they’re drinking tea; 

While from out a pretty stand 
Floats the music of the band, 

Swinging in the balmy air 
Melody is everywhere. 

And just across the way 
They are playing golf today; 

Man and Maid in white attire 
Cheeks aglow with pleasure’s fire, 

Pompous man with hair quite grey 
How he puffs, but he can play. 

Woman’s laughter soft and low 
Rythmic with the music’s flow; 

Winds sing sweetly in each tree 
Joined in chorus by the sea 
Beauteous sights I here behold 
And sound whose raptures are untold. 

On this dreamy afternoon 
Mother Nature seems in tune; 

No discordant sight or sound 
Peace and harmony abound, 

E’en the birds seem singing psalms 
Round Poinciana midst the Palms. 

He and She on the Sands 

How sweet She looked in her pure white gown— 
She was filling her hands with shells, 

Her red lips tasted the salt sea spray; 

Her bosom rose with the ocean swells. 

How could He help it, who walked beside 
When his heart began to reach; 

For Cupid is ever laying traps 
For they who stroll on the beach. 

For there’s something about the song of the waves 
And the wash of a tropical sea, 

That proves the Garden of Eden’s dream 
Where SHE was made for HE. 

He was fine and strong and his eyes were dark, 
And her’s were a tender blue, 

And they shone with joy at the tale She heard, 
For she knew that his words were true. 

And what cared they if the wild waves laughed, 
As He kissed her dear soft hands; 

For there was no ocean, or people, or things, 
To HE and SHE on the sands. 


Sixteen 


Heart of the South 


Florida’s Palms and Pines 

Both are tall and green and graceful, 
Reaching far up into the blue; 

Like fingers pointing heavenward; 

Or sentinels staunch and true. 

Standing in Military fashion, 

Presenting arms to the sky 

Serving their country while they live, 
Serving her well when they die. 

The Cocoanut Palms yield up their best 
In abundance to Monkey and Man; 

Their leaves need not the manufactory art, 
They are God-fashioned into a fan. 

And to lungs that are ill and ailing 
How welcome the Balsam of Pine. 

And other trees give their life’s best blood 
And we call it just turpentine. 

When they have served this purpose 
Subservient yet to man’s will; 

They go to their death like soldiers, 

Their death song’s the buzz of the mill. 

These wonderful, beautiful, stately trees 
Where grandeur and use combines, 

My soul in humility bows at the feet 
Of Florida’s Palms and Pines. 


Southern Fields of Black and White 

I maintain it’s at it’s best, 

Looks the fairest sight to me, 

When between the heads of white 
Blackest Kinky heads I see, 

I can see them as 1 write 
Southern fields of black and white. 

Little pickaninny heads 
Reaching even with the cotton, 

Forms the queerest looking field 
Sight that cannot be forgotten. 

I can see them as I write 
Southern fields of black and white. 

Air vibrating southern songs, 

Filled with careless southern laughter, 

Caring for the joy today 
Caring not what may come after. 

I can see them as 1 write 
Southern fields of black and white. 

Darkest hands of man and maid 
Meet above the snowy heads, 

Sometimes when the crop is picked 
Darkest man and maiden weds. 

I can see them as I write 
Southern fields of black and white. 

So the love of life and laughter 
Mixes with the bloom ot cotton, 

Pleasing pictures of the South 
Sight which cannot be forgotten. 

I can see them as I write 
Southern fields of black and white. 


Heart of the South 


Seventeen 


Plantations Along the Mississippi 

Southward from the Crescent City- 
Flows the winding Mississippi 
To it’s mouth; 

And along on either side, 

Of this river long and wide, 

Are the famous old plantations of the South. 

In a lawn of softest green, 

Standing midst the trees is seen, 

The “Big House” as it stood in slavery days; 

And there’s not a black or white, 

Who won’t vow with all his might, 

They are happier with the old time Southern ways. 

So the rows of Cabins stand, 

Where they who till the land, 

Live in happy unconcern the whole year through; 
For they still depend on “Master,” 

And they know that all disaster, 

He will shoulder as he always used to do. 

So the rice-fields and the cane, 

Behind the Levees wave again, 

Just the same as in the days of long ago; 

And the darkies still are singing, 

In the evening banjos ringing, 

While they gaily trip tne light fantastic toe. 

And so after all these years, 

Spite of war, and woe and tears, 

And the ache of Southern hearts who knew the strife; 
They have settled back again, 

’Mongst the fields of Sugar Cane, 

Gladly back into the old plantation life. 

Sponge Fishing at Key West 

Down beneath the waters blue, 

Down beneath the waters grey, 

Are the queerest sort of things, 

Old Neptune has stored away. 

So the fishers, daring men— 

Daily rob his treasure-hold, 

And success seems to attend 

Fearless robbers who are bold. 

In some waters, fishermen— 

Catch the shining, finny game, 

And we know the pearl and oyster 
From his sandy lockers came. 

But the queerest of them all, 

That is, so it seemed to me, 

Was to see them bring in sponges 
Which they piled up on the Key. 

There they looked a dirty brown, 

But they told me that they bleached them; 
And those like buckets were cut down, 

Long before the public reached them. 

But of all the funny fishing, 

That is, so it seems to me, 

Are the Key West fishermen 

Fishing sponges from the sea. 


Eighteen 


Heart of the South 


Louisville, Kentucky 

It is not secluded, nor is it set apart, 

Yet 'tis like no other city that I know. 

While it has the southern grace, 

It certainly sets the pace, 

With its flowing wit —and other things that “ flow.” 
For history has it down, 

’Bout this old Kentucky town, 

That its women are the fairest, 

And its horses are the rarest, 

In the South. 

And they do not hesitate 
To keep enough of “straight” 

They say to save the country from a drouth, 

Be that as it may, I am only here to say, 

From my own particular point of view, 

Hospitality and they spell one, 

For there's nothing left undone, 

When there’s a place within their hearts for you. 

So you may put it down, 

’Bout this old Kentucky town, 

There's a heart for any fate 
That attacks you, soon or late; 

While a hand 

Is outstretched to help you through, 

Or to clink a glass with you, 

If they like you, they are “there”—understand. 


A Saw Mill of the South 

Miles and miles and miles of pines, 
With a clearing in the center, 
Where the southern sunlight shines, 
There where winter dare not enter; 
Where the buzzing of the mill 
Breaks the silence once so still. 
Saws a-ringing, 

Darkies singing, 

Sawdust piling in a hill. 

Negro cabins by the score, 

White Boss lives across the way; 
Near the blacksmith shop and store 
White Boss’ little children play; 
Where the buzzing of the mill 
Breaks the silence once so still. 
Saws a-ringing, 

Darkies singing, 

Sawdust piling in a hill. 


Heart of the South 


Nineteen 


SIR CROCODILE 

I will tell you if I must, 

I could never put my trust 
In your most engaging smile; 

Sir Crocodile. 

1 admit your style’s inviting, 

If it were not for your biting, 

I’d succomb unto your smile; 

Sir Crocodile. 

I can hear my bones a-crunching, 

As your powerful jaws go munching, 
Though you smile all the while; 

Sir Crocodile. 

I can’t get o’er the feeling, 

That upon my mind comes stealing, 

That you mock me with your smile; 

Sir Crocodile. 

You may have the best intention, 

But it’s only fair to mention, 

Courage oozes while you smile; 

Sir Crocodile. 

Though your tail so gently wags, 

I’d prefer it made in bags, 

Though it spoils your pleasing smile; 

Sir Crocodile. 

And they tell me when you eat. 

You prefer the darker meat, 

And that here’s where most you smile, 

Sir Crocodile. 

Bound For Havana. 

Hiding over the crest of a wave, 

Slipping into a trough of the sea, 

Dividing the waters on either side, 

Is this boat which carries me. 

Ploughing her nose through the restless blue, 
The better progress to make— 

Pressing the seething waters out, 

To a broad white trail in her wake. 

And the boat keeps rising and falling, 

On the ocean’s turbulent breast, 

O, weary must be the old, old sea, 

That it never can know rest. 

1 hear the throb of the engines, 

Like a wonderful monster heart, 

As the ship rides on the great high seas, 

A thing of herself apart. 

Far in vain I’ve scanned the horizon, 

For the sight of a single sail, 

But alone we are ploughing our watery world, 
And churning our long white trail. 

A sea gull is flying over the mast, 

Dipping low with its snowy wings, 

Glad for the ship in the lonely sea, 

And the crumbs which a passenger flings. 

Handle us gently, O mighty sea, 

For the ship and we are frail; 

And we’ll soon pass on, and the world, like you, 
Will erase from her bosom our long white trail. 


Twenty 


Heart of the South 


SIR ANGLER 

FISHING AT FORT MYERS, FLORIDA 

Be careful Sir Angler, your victim is shy; 

Don't strike till he steadily drags; 

Then brace your feet, and give him the butt; 
From this moment he never lags. 

His Majesty quivers his shining length, 

Like a bull his head he flings; 

Loosen up, let him bolt, and lend your ear 
To the song your taut line sings. 

He reaches deep water and plunges down, 

Then as swiftly he glides to the top, 

And springs from the surface a silver gleam, 
Then descends with a swirling flop. 

He madly rushes to tangle your line, 

He leaps and he plunges to see, 

If he can sever the line of fate, 

That stretches twixt you and he. 

Your heart like a trip hammer’s pounding away, 
Your eyes with excitement glow; 

You are working hard, and well you may, 

For your victim is fighting his foe. 

He splashes and flashes and beats the air, 

Then back in the water he churns, 

Then down he goes and your line lies slack, 

And your soul with anxiety burns. 

But not for long, with a mighty spurt, 

In his last great fighting nope, 

He makes the effort of his life, 

And you admire his strength to cope. 

At last he yields in his sullen despair, 

And you know your sport is done; 

When King Tarpon played a losing game, 

And you, Sir Angler, won. 

Thomas A. Edison’s Winter Home 

AT FORT MYERS, FLORIDA. 

On the banks of the Caloosahatchee 
Stands a fine old Southern home, 

With it’s wide Veranda, where 
The clinging green vines roam. 

Down the steps the Master comes— 

He lingers neath a stately Palm, 

To the fevered action of his life 
This peaceful scene brings calm. 

He strolls into his orange grove, 

He smiles upon it’s wealth of gold, 

He feels that life is good to live 

Where nature’s beauties doth unfold. 

He presses velvet neath his feet— 

He looks where trees and flowers abound, 

He hears the faintest songs of birds— 

His ear is so attuned to sound. 

Now resting on the river’s bank, 

It speaks to him in it’s rippling flow, 

For nature tells to this great man 

Things we couldn’t understand or know. 

No greater benefactor knows mankind; 

Long may we retain him, this grand soul, 

And many the winters he’ll live to spend 
Where the Caloosahatchee waters roll. 



Heart of the South 


Twenty-one 


The Southern Idea of Living 

Just a kiss to start the day— 

That’s living; 

Just a kind word on the way— 

That’s living; 

. ust a helpful loving hand, 

, ust a heart at your command, 

. ust some one to understand— 

That’s living. 

Just a true and tender face— 

That’s living; 

Jusbainever failing grace— 

That’s living. 

, usbaibending of the will, 

, ustja mission to fulfill, 

' ust'a resting on the hill— 

That’s living. 

Just a peaceful going on— 

That’s living; 

Just a never ending song— 

That’s living; 

! ust the light in Southerm’eyes, 
ust the blue in Southern^skies, 
ust allove that never dies— 

That’s living. 


From My Car Window 

Speeding along through a Sun-kissed land, 

With the Palms and the Pines on either hand, 

And the pale grey moss hangs here and there 
In its graceful length like a Maiden’s hair. 

The Pines and the Palms now open apace, 

And give to the Pine-apple gardens a place, 

These gardens now stretch themselves into a sea; 
Like great yellow Porcupines they look to me. 

This splendid panorama to my view unfolds 
Orange groves rich in their greens and golds, 

What harmony in color, how it pleases the eye; 
We fain would tarry but our train rushes by. 

We have crossed some water and they tell me 
We are near the coast, ’tis an arm of the sea, 

No wonder the air is so pure and clear 
And one feels exhilerated when the sea is near. 

’Tis Mid-winter, but I have forgotten the fact 
That the frozen North with ice is packed; 

It seems so funny—how can it be— 

When flowers and oranges are what I see? 

When red Poinsettas, and Hibiscus too, 

Vie with each other in their flaming hue, 

And Cocoanut Palms so graceful and tall 
With their fruit all ripened and ready to fall. 

The skies so blue and the balmy air 
Is dispensing gladness everywhere, 

Ah! Surely if one lives in a land like this, 

Not much from the Garden of Eden they miss. 




Twenty-two 


Heart of the South 


IN THE EVERGLADES 

HOME OF THE SEMINOLE INDIAN 

Tangled wood and deepest vale, 

Vines so thickly laced, 

Sun can scarcely find his way, 

Trees so closely placed. 

Cane-brakes rising from the swamp; 

Rushes thick and tall, 

Reeds and cat-tails flourish here; 

Through them reptiles crawl. 

’Tis the Aligator’s lair, 

Here his rightful home; 

Here the man who hunts him down 
Is compelled to come. 

Who, think you, would choose a home 
In this dread, infested place? 

Still an Indian did this thing— 

Queerest people, strangest race 

Homes they built on stilted legs, 

O’er the sluggish streams, 

Roofs they thatched with cane and palm, 

On palmetto beams. 

In small oanoes they come and go, 

They creep between the brakes; 

Nor fear the Aligator’s hiss 
Of anger as he wakes. 

A wonder is this Indian’s garb, 

With barest legs of brown— 

With silk hat on his head, he turns 
The fashions upside down. 

He wears a fancy shirt of white, 

A velvet jacket, too, 

And many dozen strands of beads, 

Some gold and silver, too. 

This autocratic Seminole, 

In his queer, exclusive heart, 

He cares not for the white man’s life— 

His life is one apart. 

So, silently in his canoe, 

Through jungles’ deepest shades, 

Speeds the dark, red Seminole 
Home into his Everglades. 

ON THE VERANDA 

AT JACKSONVILLE, FLA. 

’Twas full mid-winter, but as we sat there, 

The breath of Summer was in the air. 

It came from a shaft of the declining sun, 

And our hearts responded to its warmth as one. 

The amorous kiss of the orb of day 
Turned into silver the fountain’s spray, 

While the palm bent her leaves in easy grace, 
To catch in the fountain a glimpse of her face. 


Heart of the South 


Twenty-three 


From the great hotel came tripping down 
The white flannel trousers and Paris gown ; 

And we two watched them as they strayed, 

This throng that wealth and fashion had made. 

A beggar came to a close retreat, 

And stationed himself so he could meet 

The generous stretch of a willing hand— 

’Twas a profitable place for a beggar to stand. 

But the throng and the beggar both meant to me 
Just a passing show for the world to see ; 

1 knew no difference, nor did I care, 

For the soft lights linger’d and “The Man” was there. 

“The Man” whose soul from on high was hurled 
To reign on this earth the King of my world ; 

And the joys he brought with him made my heart expand 
With raptures untold when he clasped my hand. 

With nature we sat very still and looked on 
Till the passing show had come and gone, 

And wondered if fashionable hearts could know 
One moment of love’s unselfish glow. 

I know that their combined wealth could not buy 
That moment of love from “The Man ” and I. 

1 smiled as I thought that my world was good— 

He pressed my hand—“ The Man ” understood. 


OSTRICH RACES 

AT JACKSONVILLE, FLA. 

Of course Jacksonville is proud 
And she aims to set the paces, 

With her beauty and her wealth 
And her ever famous races. 

But the race that pleased me most, 

From an aristocratic sense, 

Was the one that’s pulled off daily 
Behind a high board fence. 

And if you don’t think it’s swell, 

Count the feathers on the bird; 

All the ladies envy him— 

So they do, upon my word. 

Now this is a high-toned racer— 

If you doubt it, ask his groom, 

Or, ask inside the “ booking-stand ’* 

Just to buy a “ Willow ” plume. 

He stretches forth his skinny neck, 

His most ungainly legs he flings, 

His Jockey crouches ’mongst the plumes, 
And gaily round the track he swings. 

Oh, ladies, if you only had 
The many plumes his broad back graces, 

All running “Hat-Stakes” you would take 
From all the other human races. 


Twenty-four 


Heart of the South 


Dear Old New Orleans 

Dear Old New Orleans— 

What wonderful themes 
Evolves from your history 
Oh city, of dreams. 

Your foreign mantle, 

With your old world grace, 
Your wear like a queen 
O'er your Royal face. 

Your red lipped daughters, 

With slumbrous eyes; 

And dark skinned men 
Did Italy’s skies, 

Or those of fair Spain, 

Or beautiful France, 

Lend that richness of color 
Their cheeks to enhance? 

Your old French Mansions, 

Whose memory brings 
The Romance and grandeur 
Of by-gone things. 

To wrought iron galleries 

Long French windows lead, 
Where sweet scents reach 
From Rose hearts freed. 

Your quaint narrow streets 
With queer paving stones 
Your white shell roads 

Your magnificient homes. 

With parks and plazas 

And flowers on your breast, 

Oh, dear old New Orleans, 

You’re beautifully dressed. 

The glory of music 

You shed o’er the throng, 

In your famous French Opera, 

The Temple of Song. 

Old King winter, 

How well he knows 
He can’t approach you 

With his ice and snows. 

Water ’most round you, 

Enhancing your charms, 

You repose like a babe 
In its mother’s arms. 

For the Sun is your lover 
And kisses you so; 

That your warm response 
Would melt the snow. 

Dear Old New Orleans, 

Some sweet spell it seems, 
Compels us to love you 
0! City of Dreams. 


Heart of the South 


Twenty-five 


The Wine of Life 

How bitter the dregs 
When the wine is low ; 

No more the sparkle 
Of its first rich flow. 

The cup once so cheering 
Seems filled with gall; 

But your thirst is insatiable 
You must drink it all. 

Amid your casks 
In your cellar of hope; 

You stumble feebly 
And blindly you grope. 

You longingly seek 
Still to find wine there; 

But you’ve only a cellar 
Of blank despair. 

You did not know 
When the wine was new ; 

How rare ’twould be 
When it older grew. 

So you lavishly wasted it 
Living, sparklingly red; 

Till you had but the dregs 
And ypur wine was dead. 

Then cheeks grew pallid 
The head drooped low; 

And feet dragged wearily 
When the heart beats slow. 

The blue of the sky 
Was turned to grey 

And the shadow lengthened 
Across your way. 

They who shared your wine 
In your happier day, 

Shares not the dregs, 

So they turn away. 

Loud you cry after them, 

Then sink on a stone; 

Deserted you drink 
Your dregs alone. 


Twenty-six 


Heart of the South 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE 

OF NEW ORLEANS, AT 1140 ROYAL STREET 

Under a ban, as a thing accursed, 

But still a mansion of high estate, 

It fails to hold a mortal friend 

Within its walls when the hour grows late. 

And yet it once was the splendid home 
Of a Creole Belle of high degree, 

Whose matchless beauty and peerless grace 
Was a dazzling sight for the eyes to see. 

This Mme. LaLaurie inherited wealth, 

Also to numerous slaves fell heir, 

And for years the lips of these fearing souls 
Were sealed to the crimes committed there. 

This beautiful fiend in a woman’s garb 

Imprisoned and tortured each poor slave, 

Who, when starved and broken, gave up life, 

Had a trap-door cover the top of his grave. 

But “ Murder will out,” so it came to pass 
The populace rose in its righteous wrath, 

Entered the home of the beautiful fiend, 

And began to smash everything in their path. 

This queen of atrocities, though, was wise; 

She dressed in her most elaborate gown, 

And from the main entrance, through the crowd, 

With her dazzling smile came sweeping down. 

Her carriage was waiting close to the steps; 

The people stood mute with this quick surprise; 

She stepped in the carriage and dashed away, 

Right before their very eyes. 

Finally recovering, they gave pursuit; 

Her horses leaped to a maddening run, 

For well she knew ’twas her race for life, 

And finally Mme. LaLaurie won. 

For a schooner stood in the great bayou. 

And a purse was thrust in the Captain’s hand, 

So quickly he steered out into the lake, 

Away from the shouting mob on the land. 

The beautiful fiend without a heart 

Was never seen in these parts again; 

But the havoc she wrought with her poor slaves’ souls 
Prevented them ever forgetting their pain. 

For on dark stormy nights their sobs and moans 
Are heard above the rain and the wind, 

And they clank the chains in the dungeon wells, 

And seem some gruesome comfort to find. 

And on nights when the moonlight gleams 
Broad and full on the Belvidere, 

The wraith of a child flees round and round— 

A little black girl in terrible fear. 

And finally reaching the cupola, 

She frantically springs out into the night, 

And her shriek is heard for blocks around, 

As she falls in the courtyard out of sight. 

So, grim old mansion, your ghastly tale 
Brings you visitors day by day, 

But you’ll find not one after set of sun 
Is willing within your walls to stay. 


Heart of the South 


Twenty- 


A LIFE APART 

Did you ever grow tired of living 
The same old monotonous life? 

Where one day follows another, 

With its petty pleasures and strife? 

Where the pleasures were too small for recording, 
And the woes not hard to bear; 

Just a dull and colorless monotone, 

With no challenge to do or dare? 

Where the sun came up from the hilltops 
And sank in the ocean’s breast; 

And the long dark waves rolled ever the same 
And broke in the same white crest? 

Where your life was planned with love left out 
And you tried to conform to its laws; 

But your soul was filled with a discontent 
And you began to inquire the cause? 

For the Gods were kind when they cast your mold 
And made your blood warm and red; 

Did they mean you to rise each day in the morn 
And each night just to go to bed? 

Did they fill your soul with ambition’s fire 
And your heart with passion’s flame, 

And expect you to live within prison walls; 

If so, who was to blame? 

If there came a time when you freed yourself, 

And you reckoned not the cost; 

Just tried to retrive in the years to come 
The joy from the years you had lost. 

And you questioned not, the right or the wrong, 
Just grasped with all your will, 

And pressed to your lips the cup of love, 

And greedily drank your fill. 

It mattered not if consuming fires 
Where slowly burning their way; 

Why care what came after this wild sweet joy? 
For you would have had your day. 

Your day!—Ah, surely ’twas worth the pain, 

If wrong— that would come after a while; 

In the meantime you cling to this dear sweet thing 
And go down to your doom with a smile. 


Twenty-eight 


Heart of the South 


The “Latin Quarter” of New Orleans 

Go there early while the birds 
Morning matins sing; 

While the dew from out the rose 
Sweetest fragrance brings. 

Peep into the old courtyards 
In the morning calm; 

There Magnolia, here the Olive, 

There the waving Palm. 

Marble-flagged and sunny 
Are these garden floors, 

Where so many hours are spent 
Living out of doors. 

The exterior of the houses 
Seem so grim and cold, 

But behind the close drawn shutters 
Warmest hearts they hold. 

While you lazy loiter 
In the early hours, 

You will see the sweetest sight, 

Lovely “Creole Flowers” 

Through the softly open doors 
Trip their dainty feet, 

Going all in one direction 
Down the narrow street. 

Heads bent so demurely 
O’er their prayer book; 

Rosary clinging to their fingers, 

Saintly sweet they look. 

With a natural inborn grace 
Nothing can surpass, 

Trip these lovely “ Creole Flowers ” 

To their early Mass. 

When the longer shadows 
Mark the passing day, 

From some wrought iron gallery 
Comes the sweetest lay. 

And such pretty ohildren 
Just before the dark, 

With their old black Mammies, 

Play in Jackson Park. 


Heart of the South 


Twenty-nine 


Heavy old brass knockers 
Speaks from out the past, 

Keys and locks quite large enough 
To hold a fort door fast. 

Fondly Creole hearts 
To their loved past clings, 

They would not exchange with you— 
You of modern things. 

May you keep your quaintness 
While the long years roll; 

May your peerless beauty 
Live, “Ma Belle Creole” 

While the “Latin Quarter” 

With it’s old world grace, 

Holds the charm of other days 
Time cannot efface. 


The Famous Shrine of St. Roch 

THE PATRON SAINT OF HEALTH, NEW ORLEANS, LA. 

Bring your taper and come with me 
To the chapel of good Saint Roch, 

And kneel at the feet of the patron of health, 

Whose miraculous healing the Doctors mock. 

For they cannot vie with this good saint, 

As thousands of pilgrims attest, 

Who have laid their afflictions and crutches down 
At the feet of this Saint so blest. 

And his shrine is the quaintest in all the world, 
While lovingly the ivy clings 

Close to the grey of the old, old walls, 

While the bell in the queer old belfry swings. 

Hundreds of tapers to the altar are brought, 

And are constantly burning night and day, 

*Tis the offering of pilgrims who seek this shrine, 
And kneel at the feet of the Saint to pray. 

Though callous the heart, low bows the head, 

For reverence is not at a loss; 

It compels you, for there, in the open air, 

Are the stations of the cross. 

With the kneeling women and prayerful men— 
Whose supplications the doctors mock, 

For prayers are answered every day 

In the blessed shrine of good Saint Roch. 


Thirty 


Heart of the South 


If You Look For Love In The World 

You’ll always find what you’re looking for 
In this world, is an adage old; 

And you’ll never be given the dross of life, 

If you diligently search for the gold. 

The Heavens above may be dull grey; 

And dark clouds piling, one by one, 

But a golden gleam will rift the clouds, 

If you’re but looking for the sun. 

There comes a time when you’re off your guard, 
And sorrow presses hard on your way; 

Try to look up through your inky night, 

You may greet the dawn of your brightest day. 

The gloomiest mortal you ever met, 

Though he seems of life a sordid part, 

If you’re looking at him with tender eyes; 

You’ll find tne love in his heart. 

And should you stroll through an Autumn wood, 
With seeing eye and listening ear, 

The leaves will don their brightest gown, 

While they whisper sweet of the passing year, 

And if you ride on the ocean’s breast, 

And your soul for melody craves, 

You’ll hear the Siren’s luring song, 

As she croons to the shells in her coral caves. 

E’en the rainbow will reach far out of the sky, 
With its beautiful ribbons around you curled, 

And this mundane sphere be a place of cheer, 

If you’ll only look for love in the world. 


Heart of Woman 

Ohl Heart of Woman, 

Accustomed to cling, 

Like the Ivy vine, 

A dependent thing; 

Reaching out with tendrils new, 

Brave in the innocence of morning dew, 

It finds at length 
A wall of stone, 

That towers into 
A mighty dome; 

How proud the vine to lend its grace 
Unto the grey wall’s barren face. 

And the Ivy vine; 

She never knew, 

Until after years, 

When tall she grew, 

And looked upon the other side 
Of the grey stone wall that was her pride, 
How could she know 
By the wall’s strong face, 

That it was crumbling 
Down at its base? 

She had given her life in its dawning day 
To this thing of ruins and fast decay. 


Heart of the South 


Thirty-one 


IN SARCASM 

Get all you can and keep it all, 

Climb on the ruins of some man’s fall, 

Let your motto of happiness be the word again, 

And consider nothing but to attain. 

The comfort of home was not meant for you, 

For wives are expensive and children too. 

Don’t cultivate friends for on the morrow 
They may meet ill-fortune and want to borrow; 

And the cries of the needy, pray do not mind, 

There are plenty others who enjoy being kind. 

And be careful of clothes, they may wear and decay, 

But bright, bright gold, will remain alway. 

And pray, what is comfort and warmth the while, 

Compared to gold in a shiny pile? 

For comforts and luxury you can do without, 

And a fire unreplenished will soon go out. 

You’ll not lack admirers, for many bow 
And pander to money, who despise you now. 

Anyway, no matter if they praise or despise, 

Hold on to your gainings, in this you are wise. 

And when death overtakes you and asks you to go, 

Don’t cavil the question or seek refuge in woe. 

Just pile up your gainings and leave them behind; 

“ ’Tis too late to be generous, too late to be kind.” 

Wrap your grave clothes about you, prepare to depart 
In company with death on your journey you start, 

And console yourself well wherever you be, 

With the thought that should last through Eternity: 

“I got all I could, I kept all I got,” 

Be the temperature chilly or exceedingly hot. 

GOD’S TEXT BOOKS 

If you have not gained the knowledge to fortify yourself with strength sufficient unto this 
day, then pray that it may be given unto you, that never again will you be found with your 
book unopened, your lesson unlearned. 

Here is the new list for the coming year, and not unlike the old in all the years gone by, 
but so new to some that a world of revelations may be found in the pages. These studies 
are Faith, Hope and Charity, Friendship, Love and Trulh ; with a notebook of Pleasure to be 
used during recess, and a Prayer to close the day. 

These books are really inexpensive to those who really desire knowledge. Their 
Author out of His Great Abundance of Love supplies them gratuitiously. 

What You May Learn Therein 

You shall learn the growing glory 
Of your life upon the plane; 

You will know that all your losses 
Are incentives to regain. 

You’ll be thankful for your sorrows 
That have met you on your way; 

You’ll be glad the inky darkness 

Brougnt the brightness of the day. 

Then the great eternal meaning 
Of the Master will be clear, 

And the sheaves of your soul’s gleaning 
Gives the pearl within the tear. 

Then your future work grows lighter. 

As you recognize the cause, 

And the purpose of your being 
Part of the Eternal laws. 

May these valued books be studied, 

That your lessons be well learned, 

For no home you’ll have in Heaven 
That on earth you have not earned. 


PRESS OF 
CARL W. H I LI- 
19 I O 


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